


Courtly Love

by PrincessLunaLover



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero
Genre: Being adopted by a lake fey will do that to you, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Lancelot is not so subtly a changeling just because of my own headcanon, Multi, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, arturia has issues, awkwardness after accidental sex, era appropriate catholic guilt, guin is the only sane one, in fate zero, it's very mutual dumbassery, lance is guilty about killing arthur, lancelot is a changeling and doesn't get it, mordred was born from rape by deception as so was galahad, played for the serious subject it is, serious discussions of trauma, the fey are all about free love baby, they've all loved each other for a long time it's just the mead that brings it out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessLunaLover/pseuds/PrincessLunaLover
Summary: Lancelot, who has long been laying in the arms of Guinevere, finds himself in bed with the beautiful lady of Camelot once more after drunken reverie. After she responds to his affections, they make love as they had many times before, only to discover the queen he lays with is the King herself. Of course, Lancelot knew he was already in love with the King, but this was not quite how he expected his confession to go.
Relationships: Guinevere/Arturia Pendragon | Saber, Guinevere/Lancelot of the Lake | Berserker, Lancelot of the Lake | Berserker/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Lancelot of the Lake | Saber & Artoria Pendragon | Saber
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

Lancelot du Lac was used to the revelry of Yule.

Being raised in the feywilds was something that made one a bit of a loose canon when it came to parties, which as a lesson that the Round Table themselves got to learn upon the arrival of the Frenchman of the Lake. The knight, normally the quiet and contemplative type, would soon enrapture his fellows in Sylvan songs of his homeland, strumming a lute stolen from the poor bards of the court, earning the applause of Sir Percival and Sir Gawain, Sir Kay shaking his head all the while. Light danced between his fingers, his normally close-cropped hair tumbling loose in long waves, and the Queen herself would clap to his tune, stamping her feet as the dance would begin.

Lancelot, in his arrival, had revealed to the court that he was the son of the Lady of the Lake, a changeling born human and turned faerie. He had shown his fair features, his shifting appearance to stay looking as a man, but they had accepted him, despite many being afraid. Their King, loving and compassionate, took a man from an enemy country, not even human, and granted him passage in his home, and a spot at his side.

Truly, the King was worthy of the ambassador to the fey.

Even when he had come, many did not believe him--for he was a reserved man, a quiet man, and a studious man. He was dutiful, gentle, and stern to his squires. Not one had believed he was truly who he said--for, after all, he may only be a magician--until the first feast of Yule came along.

Nobody questioned him after that.

This year--the year in which Gawain had returned victorious, from his feud with the Green Knight--was especially glorious, all things considered. Their knight was truly a noble man, and honest man, and all had taken green sashes in his honor, despite Gawain's insistence it was a dishonorable mark on his reputation. After all, he had returned, and that was enough for celebration, Arthur insisted. Why should they not celebrate him?

For Lancelot, it was enough. His King was proven a King of noble knights, the most honorable of all men, and Lancelot sang a song of glory and victory and beauty, serenading his court with the charm of the fey, and they had danced and sung to his voice, exhausting them all for the evening, long into the night--no reason to be reserved, when there was celebration to be had!

His head muddled with drink, swimming with song, Lancelot soon returned to the halls for the night, making his way right into the bed of his queen, paying no heed to the possibility that he would be caught by his fellow knights, all of them returned to their chambers as well. Upon the royal bed, he could see the outline of a figure draped in sheets--curved in shape, long hair fair and framing a beautiful face, and Lancelot knew it was Guinevere, the queen who had captured at least half of his heart.

He removed his celebratory ornaments, sliding under the heavy covers, his body long and untouched by any scarring, smooth and beautiful under the kiss of the moon. She was small, against him, when he pressed his chest to her back. He could easily cup her in his form, which he did, hands finding their way down his sides, in the curve of her hip and the touch of her thigh. 

He cupped her breast in his hand, and he felt her stir, as it was not the first time that he had done this. He could hear her mouth open, a soft breath escaping her.

"May I?" Lancelot asked, voice low. And, her face obscured by her hair, he was answered with a kiss--fragile, and stammering, and a little broken under him. As their love had always been. 

He would kiss back.

* * *

Arturia was exhausted. 

The worry of her knights was unbearable, to think of Gawain capable of death, to think of how he believed he had dishonored them all. She cared not for his worries--only that he had returned, only that he was safe.

She had...perhaps indulged herself, that night. She had drank until her head was lighter than the stars, until her voice quaked. Knowing that she could risk exposing her secret, she had retreated to her bedchambers early. Allowing Guinevere to handle her nightly duties as the King of Camelot lay in bed, completely nude to ease her skin from the weight of her bandages and armor.

She dreamed--for she was sure it was a dream, when she had awakened in the arms of a man. A man familiar to her--his frame so true that she knew him before he spoke. A man who stroked her body in ways no man had ever touched, and his voice was fire against her skin, bludgeoning her ears with familiarity and aching love.

She kissed him, as an answer. For she knew he loved her wife--and Arturia could not blame him, because countless nights she had lay with her wife and made love to Guinevere, knowing they could never have an heir, that their marriage would end futilely. She did not blame her wife for loving Lancelot, as she loved him and his loyalty and his charm as much as she loved her wife.

But she was a sinner--a woman living as a man, a woman in love with a woman, a woman in love with a man not her husband. A woman allowing her wife to lay in bed with a man outside her marriage.

Is it not right that she would dream of a man who she loved bedding her, as she had done before?

Perhaps, then, she would allow herself this night of sinful dream, if she was already damned as it is.

She rolled herself, shifting under the sheets until she was sitting atop the knight, looking down at him, bangs framing her face and her long hair down her back, touching her knight's face while he looked back at her, eyes lidded in drink. Her breasts exposed to a man, her body flushed--she felt naked, more than she really was. Naked, exposed, and his eyes roamed her body, drinking her features in. 

She normally wore her hair in a low ponytail, her body bound by bandages and heavy armor, men's armor heavy on her form, her helm hiding her face and her hips and her breasts. Heavy padding filled her muscles, her jawline peppered by makeup applied by her wife to give the impression of a beard and stubble. She felt his hands on her jaw, as if he knew, as if he was inspecting her truly for the first time. The knight--so quiet, so stern, so reclusive and shy--saw her face, and he leaned up to kiss her, his hand sliding to cup her breast, her back, and Arturia felt close to tears.

" _Lancelot_." She breathed, shaking into his mouth. Her lips opened, and his tongue was hot, his head tilting as she tilted her jaw back and she could feel him exploring her, her tongue and her mouth and her lips. Her thighs pressed together as she could feel herself wettening, feeling his hand moving down her breast, thumb pressing against her nipple and earning a little spasm from her. 

Her hips moved, a single jerk, against his hips. She could feel him against her thigh, thick and heavy and hot, and he twitched against her. His hand moved past her hair, pushing it behind her ear. He pulled back to look at her again.

"Arthur...but you're a woman now. I know your scars." He said, voice approaching wonder. "I've seen all of your battles...all of those scars."

Arturia nodded. A dream where he would follow her. A dream where he would accept her. He kissed her again, twice as passionate, grabbing hold of her hips, fingers against the fat of her thighs. She let out a startled sound against his lips, wet against him while she could feel him twitch again.

She was not a virgin, not by any means. She knew the bounty of touch, she knew the flush of skin against skin. No, what made her tremble was not a man, but _Lancelot_. Her knight. Her _love_.

He guided himself inside of her, long and warm and thick. She sank onto him, her eyes squeezing shut and her body shaking. She dragged herself upwards, whimpering as she went, and he was filling, too filling, and she was convinced she would burst. 

Perhaps she would. Perhaps all that was left was him.

She prayed she would not wake before this was over. 

" _Arthur_." Her groaned, his head thrown back, grasping her hips and her back. "Arthur, my _King_. My _love_."

Her thighs shook, and she quickened her pace, knowing he was building inside her, knowing he was warm and knowing he was true. Her Lancelot, sworn to her, sworn to protect and adore her. Her Lancelot, brought to her as a directionless fey who she turned into her knight. Talented, wild, and tamed. 

She gasped. He was warm, and he burst inside of her, and she shook, reaching her end soon after. She shivered, coming down from her high atop him. 

All was dark, as she was sure she would enter another dream.

* * *

Lancelot awoke to a woman in his arms. 

He kissed her, lazily. His hands combing through her hair. His Guin. 

Last night, he dreamed of Arthur, but a woman. He was certain his mind combined his love for both, as always. One love, as his heart was torn between the two.

The door opened, and a woman of fair hair and skin and eyes entered, blinking, as she looked at the two of them. Having spent the night in her personal room, she had come to awaken her King, to find her in bed with another.

Her other lover.

Lancelot blinked at her, and the woman in his arms shifted.

"It wasn't a dream." He whispered.

A pin could have echoed in their room.


	2. Chapter 2

Lancelot knew from a rather young age that he would be a knight of Camelot.

His mother would braid his long, violet hair while she wove flowers into it—telling him of how the fair folk like them were treated as monsters, as beasts. She would tell him of Merlin, the magician who would obsessively chase her, until she trapped him in a tree. Starting as a mere enchantress, Viviane had grown through the ranks of the Summer Court, until she had managed to find herself archfey of Avalon, serving in the court of the Summer Queen Titania herself.

Lancelot, as a child, understood none of that. He knew his mother wanted to be Queen of Men, and he as a boy aspired to be a knight of the Summer Queen. Viviane, however, had other ideals—cupping his face and telling him he could make a difference to the world of men, that if he served the King of Knights, then he would bring peace between the fey and men. That was why she had him, she had said. He was to be a savior to their people, a knight as noble and brave as the King of Knights, chosen by the sword himself.

At the time, Lancelot had really believed it.

He lay there, on his back, untouched by scars, features pointed and thin. On his chest, a beautiful woman with a map of angry marks, sleeping, and he could only know by the woman standing in the doorway that it was somehow King Arthur atop him—King Arthur, but a woman. King Arthur, who he had slept with. King Arthur, who he had loved from afar, who was a distant image of a saint, who was too perfect to believe existed. King Arthur.

It was…almost laughable, in a bizarre way. An odd sense of guilt washed over him—as if he had somehow cheated on Guinevere by sleeping with the man (woman?) she was married-to. As if they had not already been having an affair in the first place. He wanted to open his mouth, to justify himself, but all he could do was stare at the ground, while Guinevere cleared her throat.

"I want to be surprised, but I must say, I have been expecting this for quite some time." Guinevere finally said, her musings breaking Lancelot out of his thoughts. The White Knight sat up in disbelief, only remembering at the last moment that he currently had his sleeping King on his chest, causing the King of Knights to fall from him with a snort. Lancelot once more felt guilt hit him, the urge to apologize, while the nude King hit the sheets, shooting upright with a dazed expression.

She was…adorable.

He had seen Arthur in every vulnerable moment, of course. He had seen Arthur smile, and laugh, and cry. He had bandaged Arthur's wounds, had gently touched that holy face, had wiped he tears and had carried Arthur out of battle on his back. Most of all, he had seen Arthur blush around her wife, had seen Arthur dance with him at the balls, had known Arthur's awkwardness and faults.

And now, seeing Arthur sleepy and draped in sheets…Lancelot could only add yet another face of his King that he would forever cherish. Even in a moment like this. To see his King vulnerable and _human_ …it was part of what made him love his King. Perfection and humanity at once.

"Guinevere?" Arthur asked, voice slightly confused, as she had yet to turn her eyes to her loyal knight. "Guinevere, why have you come to wake me up so late? Has breakfast already been served this morning?"

The Queen of Camelot cleared her throat, coughing a few times, her heavy, red waves seeming to frame her embarrassment even more. "Yes, breakfast has been made, my love. But I have come to wake you because your current bed partner seems to have taken the liberty to keep you in his arms when I could not."

"My current bed partner?" Arthur's brows furrowed, and as if anticipating horror (which Lancelot did not blame her for) the King of Knights turned her head and met Lancelot's gaze.

The White Knight could almost see the wheels in her head turning, as she looked Lancelot up and down, and then herself. Almost as if completely on reflex, Arthur immediately covered herself, jumping back out of the bed and gasping.

"Lancelot?" She cried, her eyes going wide. "Lancelot—you—in _my_ bedchambers? With me? You saw—you lay—"

Her face had gone completely red by that point, and Lancelot stood up himself, holding his hands up in a position of surrender. "My King, your secret shall never pass my lips. In my drunken haze, I came to your room, and I did not realize it was you, and not…"

The other name lay heavy on his lips. Arthur's eyes slid past Lancelot, to her wife, and the King straightened, still using her bedsheets to properly cover herself. "Then you believed the same as I had. Your trespassing on my bedchambers shall be forgiven, Lancelot, but I warn you that this was a mistake, and nothing more. We shall never speak of this again."

"Come, now." Guinevere said, stepping further into the room, past the two knights, into a battlefield of gazes where Lancelot was not quite sure could be counted as deadly force. "My beloved, please regain your head. I believe we do at least owe Lancelot an explanation, and a moment to gather his thoughts."

"He can handle such thoughts. He is more than a capable knight." Arthur replied shortly, looking away from Lancelot to continue meeting Guinevere's gaze. "And we have more matters to discuss, Guin. Things more important than a mere mistake that will never be mentioned again."

" _Beloved_." Guinevere's voice was a little short, making both Lancelot and Arthur flinch under the sternness of her tone. "Get yourself dressed, and you can head out on your quest. For now, we must at least settle things, before our poor White Knight is driven mad with questions."

Arthur seemed to wither under her beloved's gaze, sighing as she took a moment to pull her bandages across her chest—something which Lancelot took a moment to watch, despite himself, gaze hungry to see the smallest recesses of his King in action. It was a careful process, watching her bind herself tight 'round her chest, tucking herself in, watching the way that she added extra layers of padding to her tunic at her waist to fill her gentle curves into straight edges. Extra layer of clothing hid her frame, filled her, broadened her, and peppers of careful paint at her jaw and her temples provided sharper edges to her round face, shadowing her underneath her large eyes and long hair.

She could have been a beautiful man, Lancelot supposed. Something he had always thought of her to be. A little short, but Guinevere's skill in makeup held true. Lancelot had to wonder if the Queen's skill was truly only in painting, or if there was a touch of magic to her illusion of Arthur's masculine face.

"Why?" Lancelot finally asked. "Why do you hide your true identity? Do you think so little of your knights that we shall abandon you? Do you believe that your skill in leadership will be left as soon as we know your name? Who are you really, my Lord?"

His King's eyes flashed, meeting Lancelot's gaze. "I am who I have always been, Lancelot. I am Arthur, King of Knights. I am the true heir of King Uther and Lady Igraine, abandoned by my mother in her madness when she believed my sister Morgan was replaced with a changeling. I was raised a farmer's daughter, I drew the Sword of Selection, Caliburn, and left my home to become the King. Whence I came here, I knew the prophecy spoke of a man. So, I became Arthur."

"But who are you?" Lancelot pressed, leaning forward. "What is your true name, my Lord?"

The King looked away from him. "Arturia. I am Arturia Pendragon, heir to Camelot. This shall never leave your lips, Lancelot. If any shall learn that their King is not their King, my kingdom shall fall. You and I both know this."

Lancelot frowned. "I believe not, my Lord. I do not follow you for your sex, I follow you for your leadership."

Arthur—Arturia—suddenly flushed, and Lancelot realized he hit on a nerve.

"—please be civil with your language, Lancelot."

Guinevere coughed, and Lancelot quirked a brow. "It happened, my Lord. There is no denying that much. We engaged in the carnal pleasures of the flesh, as I am sure you are aware that I have done with—"

"Lancelot, _please_." Arturia said, raising her hand again. "I know you are infatuated with women, and I know you must be over the moon with being able to find the King you serve is another conquest. I am quite happy for you. But know this will _not_ happen again."

Lancelot's frown deepened. "My Lord, do you think my loyalty is because of your beauty? I am a fey, I enjoy sex and romance, but I follow you because of your nobility and strength. I was infatuated with Arthur _before_ Arturia, and whilst I rejoice in being able to show that to you, know that it has nothing to do with wanting to bed you, but because of who _you_ are, not your beauty."

The words fell freely, simply. Because it was his nature to be open with his thoughts to men, and even as he said them, he knew his King's nature would not permit such honesty among the court.

Arturia stood up. "I appreciate your sentiments, Lancelot, and know that I admire your swordsmanship, your loyalty, and your honesty. You are truly my favored knight among all others. You are my right hand, and my left. But even as you speak, you know it cannot be. I permit your love of my wife because it is my duty as her betrothed to give her joy, and because I value your joy, Lancelot. But I cannot partake. Now, if you will excuse me, I have morning duties to attend."

And, with that, the King of Knights left, leaving Guinevere and Lancelot alone once more.

Lancelot sighed, sitting back down, putting his head in his hands. "Is she always so difficult?"

"Oh, you would not believe." Guinevere echoed his sigh. "It took me weeks to get her to kiss me, and it took convincing her that it was her duty as my husband to do so. She is…often lost in her expectations of herself. Expectations nobody is forcing upon her, but her own high standards."

Lancelot's lip twitched. "I hope she does not believe that I fancy her only now."

"Of course not. She is only trying to keep herself apart, so that she does not fall."

"Fall to whom?"

"Fall to Camelot's ruin. She holds the entire Kingdom on her back, it is only natural that she wishes that she will not be its end."

Lancelot ran his thumb over his palm, in thought. "Merlin warned us. He stated that I will have a son who is beloved of all knights, and that Arthur will have a son who is the ruin of Camelot. Maybe she thinks that it would be her own fault if it stays fulfilled. My mother—she has visions of the future. She even chained Merlin to stone when he fulfilled her visions."

"And you can imagine why she would be nervous about sleeping with a man."

Lancelot chuffed. "She does have you, why would she need me?'

"I don't know, why _do_ I need you?"

That drew a laugh, and Lancelot leaned back, looking towards the window.

"…there is a new knight coming today, is there not?"

"Yes, one also from France. Mordred, younger than Percival, when he first came. I suppose we should go and greet him—or at least you should. Duty as Knight and all."

"Yes, yes. I shall." Lancelot stood up. "…do take care of her today, will you not?"

"Better than you." Guinevere smiled. "As always. She is beloved of us all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, there's an actual plot.
> 
> Lancelot in Fate/Zero is more melancholic because he believes he killed Arturia. For right now, he's a lot more young, a lot more lighthearted, and very very himself. I'm also drawing on Arthurian mythos for a lot of his personality, where he's fiery, juvenile, and tends to pout when he doesn't get his way.
> 
> We get Mordred soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Arturia Pendragon remembered the battle with the White Knight well.

Sir Gawain had been enchanted at the time, captured by one of the members of the Summer Court, dancing eternally with the members of the fey by the campfire in the Summer Sun. Passing through the Avalon Countryside, the White Knight had found a human of the Court of Camelot, and had taken it upon himself to present Gawain with his own ring of disenchantment, taking the Honest Knight by the hand and bringing him through the Lake of Avalon, through to the other side into the French countryside, and back to the human realm.

Accompanied by Sir Gawain, Lancelot had then ridden with the other knight, laughing and joking all the while as they had made their way from France to Camelot, with Sir Gawain having presented himself as an advocate for the other knight. After all, Lancelot had served as a member of the Summer Court, and so why should he not be allowed to serve King Arthur himself?

Arturia was…a bit different, back then. Before the war with Galahaut, before the enchantments and attacks on her own bride, before the endless wars of the Saxons, she had once been a young knight herself, and had been prone to play. So, disguising herself as the Black Knight, she presented herself as her own trial to the White Knight Lancelot, and together the two of them dueled.

They dueled long into the evening tide, clashing blade against blade, the White Knight against the Black. Both swearing their victories in the name of Lady Guinevere, who enchanted Lancelot on the spot, and who Arturia would forever pledge her victories in the name of. Lady Guinevere, wearing favors from them both, called her support in favor of the Goddess of Victory in her stead, and the two of them laughed—joyous, and deep, and full of life in ways that Arturia did not think she had laughed since.

It was in the heat of battle that she had first met Lancelot's gaze. Dark, violet eyes beneath a helm of shining white, burning into her own eyes beneath a helm of red and black. Their swords matched, struggling against one another, of equal strength and measure. Finally, at the rise of the high moon, the Sword of Selection won over the enchanted silver, and Lancelot's sword was flung into the battlefield, into the dust as Arturia balanced the tip of her blade against his nose.

It was in that moment that Lancelot, in a move that Arturia figured only a Frenchman could make, swept his leg out, catching the Black Knight under her own weight, and tipping her onto her backside. Grabbing the Sword of Selection, the White Knight grinned.

"You won the battle, but I won the war." He had said—words that Arturia still pondered to this very day.

"I won in a contest of chivalry, you won in cheating." She rebutted, earning a laugh.

Lancelot was instantly knighted, on that very moment. Deemed the White Knight of Camelot, he was always at her side, with Gawain on her other, and Guinevere at her back.

The affair with Mordred was…something else entirely.

When the Red Knight arrived on Camelot, brought in mystery, and shrouded in shadow, the castle had come to meet the arrival of Sir Mordred of Benwick, adopted son of Lady Evaine, Prince to Benwick upon Lancelot's renouncement of the throne. The fact alone was something to cause talk amongst the knights—after all, that would make Mordred cousin of Lancelot, at least by legality—but Lancelot dismissed such things, in a way that Arturia supposed was befitting of someone who cared only for battles and fun.

When Mordred had arrived, attendants had come to the young Prince, bringing him through corridors and tapestries darkened by the evening, in the same way the White Knight had been. However, while the White Knight had been a thing of spectacle and celebration, the Red Knight was…different.

In a helm befitting a beast more than a man, the Red Knight stopped himself before the court, eyes locking instantly onto the King, behind a slatted helm reminding Arturia of the minotaur that Theseus surely must have encountered. The Red Knight planted his sword before him, a deep, crimson thing reminding the King of the minotaur's axe, and bowed on one knee before the King of Knights, his head going low as he spoke.

"King of Logres, Arthur Pendragon, I come to you from Benwick to ask your vassalhood. You shall be my Lord, and I shall be your sword. Prince Mordred de Maris, son of Evaine, swears loyalty to you, above all else."

There was a silence in the room heavy and palpable, and Arturia's eyes took in the sight of the young man. He could not have been much older than she was when she drew the Sword of Selection, and upon her head, the crown she wore suddenly felt heavy and biting, as if it was trying to already push her into an early grave.

Minutes passed, minutes of utter agony. She could see the way that the young man's shoulders were shaking underneath the weight of his armor. She knew how heavy it must have been on him, and how stained his hands already were with blood. She had taken Percival, for he had already known solitude and savagery. She had taken Galahaut, for she knew the value of giving second chances to your enemies of old. But this boy—even with how he was coated in blood and death, she could not help seeing that beneath his heavy plate was a heart of innocence and mercy.

Who was she to inflict war upon that? Who was she to issue him a life of servitude to battle, to politics and betrayal, when he could still return home and remain a Prince for the rest of his life?

"My Lord?" Guinevere asked behind Arturia, breaking the King out of her thoughts, causing her to jump at the sudden insistence. Her crown overbalanced atop her head and spilled heavy into her lap. Arturia took a moment to allow it to hit the ground beneath her, spilling over before the kneeling knight, who finally broke his stance of fealty to pick the crown up, getting to his feet.

"King of Knights, is there something about me that displeases you?" Mordred then asked, holding the crown in his hands, dangling from his fingertips as if it were some precious gift above all else. Arturia shook her head, taking steps down from the throne in order to properly retrieve the crown from the grasp of the other, and she could not help but notice the way that Mordred seemed to pause, as if ready to ask something else, before thinking better of himself and allowing the King to return to his throne.

"No. You are acceptable and will be granted vassalhood by me. Whence you prove yourself to me directly, I shall give you access to my Round Table, with the rest of my privileged knights. Until then, you are Sir Mordred of Camelot, and I shall call you whence I need your blade."

Arturia watched as the eyes of the young knight grew wide, and she could not help the feeling of guilt that settled in her heart when she saw the excitement in the young knight's face. She then knew that between Mordred and Lancelot, she could not stay for much longer in Camelot, lest her own emotions get the better of her.

"My Lady, to my bedchambers." Arturia said, while the other knights encroached upon the young knight, and Guinevere turned her head to meet Arturia's gaze. "I must council with you at once. I have urgent leave to meet Merlin, and I will not be here to oversee the training of this young knight."

Guinevere frowned, but nodded.

"I shall oversee you while you leave, then. I will draw the plans."

"Good." Arturia sighed, watching Mordred. "Good. Reliable as always, Guinevere."

* * *

Mordred was quite sure that she had never seen this many people in her entire life.

It was not the fact that she was raised a Prince—mostly, at the very least. It was the fact that she had two mothers—at least, one mother, and one mother who had no idea about the other.

From a young age, Mordred had been raised afar by Morgan le Fay, who had given birth to her after having slept with the King of Knights and leaving her in the care of a Queen who had no child. Mordred loved her adopted mother, but had craved the attention and approval of her birth father and mother her whole life, with how her adopted mother had gone mad long ago, and would only roam the halls in grief over the loss of her two children. Knowing that her birth parents were powerful nobles of the Fey and Men alike, Mordred had taken immediately to the task of impressing and pleasing the both.

Perhaps, then, she will not only be a Prince, but a King as great as her father, and a Lady as great as her mother. To do this, she had to disguise herself as a man to gain the approval of her father, and to gain the right to his throne. Then she would be King of Camelot, and King of the Fey, and she would be not only a madwoman's bastard anymore.

It was so perfect a plan that of course it could not work, as Mordred learned while she knelt in front of her father, who looked at her as if he were looking at an unpleasant insect that he had found underneath the heel of his foot.

"Why does he not recognize me?" Mordred asked her mother in her room, frowning as she began to undo her plate. "Does he not know that I am his own son? Does he not remember the love he shared with you? You speak of him so highly—like you had a romance greater than any other. Yet he seems to believe that I am nothing, that I am not even a common bug. Why? What have I done wrong?"

She could feel the familiar presence of her mother, as comforting and soothing as always, draping herself around her shoulders, leaning close into her ear. "Perhaps he does not recognize you because of how long ago it was, Mordred. After all, you were not even born yet before he had to leave. Give him a little time, and he will recognize your greatness."

Mordred frowned, but felt herself soothed by the words. Flexing her muscles, she started to smile. "That will be easy enough. I am already a greater swordsman than any other person in the whole world—all I have to do is win some tournaments, kiss some maidens, get a castle of my own, and I will have all of this in the bag!"

"When he retires, he will need an heir who is even greater than him." Morgan agreed. "I am certain he will recognize you as that."

"Yeah!" Mordred exclaimed. "King Mordred of Camelot, heir to the greatest Empire the world has ever known. Greater than Greece, or Egypt, or China—I'm going to make Iskandar the Conqueror jealous with how the sun will never set on the English Empire!"

Morgan smiled, watching her heir prattle on about dreams of a shining, golden city with endless access to all the world's wealth and resources. She supposed that it was something she had to watch before her plans came to fruition. After all, she loved her child, and she should not rip the rug out from the young heir so very soon.

She did love very dearly. Just not the ways that most did.

"Get some rest, my dear Mordred. You will need your energy for your victories."

"Right." Mordred nodded, finishing removing her armor. "Goodnight, mom."

"Goodnight, Mordred."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot ahoy.
> 
> I added an extra chapter more than I planned...I hope this is alright.
> 
> Thanks for reading and feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Rape by deception is discussed, very vividly. Please don't read if this triggers you.

Mordred was curious.

Raised by Morgan of the Fey, apart from much of humanity, the son of the enchantress found herself quite free in this new kingdom, apart from her mother. A place absolutely _bursting_ with people, with men—all of them heroes, and all of them royalty!

It was absolutely a _dream_.

She found herself following them around in secret for a good portion of the day—them being some of the knights, observing their exercises from afar. She observed Galahad’s morning jogs, Tristan’s training of the new mounts, Gawain’s swordplay with some of the young vassals who had come to train under the knights, and, at the moment, she had come to help arrange the King’s journey to see Merlin, the Grand Caster of Logres.

Ducking her head behind a wall, Mordred took the time to peer around the side, watching Lancelot direct some of the serfs who tilled the land to prepare some supplies, taking it out of the monthly budget for such a surprise trip from the King.

Mordred, so focused on the inner workings of day-to-day life in Camelot, was so absorbed by people-watching that she hardly noticed the way one stepped into the darkness of the trees, and the footsteps behind her.

“Mordred, is it?”

**_“Gah!”_ **

The vassal jumped a mile, spinning around suddenly to see swordsman of the lake behind her. The oversized horns on her helm knocked right into the wall, heavy and wearing on her, making her see stars for a moment before she was able to shake herself out of it.

She steadied herself against the wall, taking a breath before she could raise her helm to meet the swordsman’s gaze, and she nodded.

“Ahh—yes! Mordred, Prince of Benwick, heir to the throne, and vassal of King Arthur now! You are Lancelot, right?”

“Indeed…” The other’s gaze burned through Mordred, intense and curious. “Have you come here hoping to gain a castle in Logres as well, then?”

Mordred blanked for a moment, in all honesty. She had not thought about much beyond proving herself to her father, and then getting the throne once she had proven herself. “Well, yeah! I mean, I have one in Benwick, but you know how it is, you get kind of sick of running those things by yourself, so you might as well stretch your wings, you know? Get some place new!”

“Indeed…” A smile quirked the sides of Lancelot’s lips. “You know, you would be my cousin.”

“…huh?”

Mordred blinked, then looked Lancelot up and down again. “Really? Right, uh—well, I knew that. Nice to meet you, cousin!”

She stuck out her hand, and Lancelot looked back down to her, as it gradually became more and more clear to him that the young knight before him was not quite what he appeared to be. Reaching out, Lancelot shook the other’s hand, unable to contain his smirk.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have been told that, of course. Well, how are the King and Queen of Bedwick doing?”

“Oh…alright, I guess. Mostly just wanted to get to know you guys here, though.” Mordred waved a hand. “My mother said that Arthur was the greatest King of all time, you know, so it was only right that I should come here. Not that my dad minded, either! I mean, he also thinks I should be here, getting my own castle and all.”

“Right.”

Lancelot considered his options for a moment and decided that it was best to just be sure, in case there was something they should be worried about.

“You wouldn’t mind that our swords are made of cold iron, then, would you?”

“Huh?”

Mordred blinked again, then looked back up at Lancelot. “What—really?”

Visible worry entered the young knight’s tone, and Lancelot’s brows rose. “It’s only right, should we have to fight off invading fey. Quite a dangerous foe, you know.”

Mordred shifted. “I mean, they’re not all bad, right? Some of them can be nice, and even have good kids, you know. Some of my best friends are like that.”

Lancelot hummed. “Indeed...tell me, is it you, or your parents?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Were you really raised here, in this world?”

“No, _really_ , I don’t know.”

Lancelot regarded Mordred for another moment, before he moved back some of his long, dark hair and showed the points of his ears, for Mordred to see. The other visibly stretched himself up, in order to get a look at the points.

“…my mom.” Mordred finally admitted. “She’s an enchantress, and she had me. She raised me in her castle in the enchanted woods. But she is nice, really! And she just wants me to be a good knight to the King. I mean, same as you, right?”

Lancelot nodded. “Yes, I am the same. But I was born to human parents and taken in generously by the Lady of the Lake. May I know who your mother is?”

Mordred hesitated again. “Well—she told me not to tell you. I don’t think I can. But keep it between us, okay? I don’t think many people would like it, you know, since I’m new and all. And I’m not going to go around taking babies or something. I just want to be a good knight.”

Lancelot smiled, and then planted a hand on top of Mordred’s head.

Vividly, he could imagine having done that to Galahad, had he known of the other’s birth. So much he had missed out on, and so much he had to make up for, if only Galahad would forgive him.

He decided he would not leave another, young one out there, lost and alone. He may as well take Mordred in as his vassal if Arthur would not have much to do with him. There was no shame in training another—and besides, he had not seen his mother in a long time. He would do good to have someone to remind him of home.

“And a good knight you shall become.”

* * *

Arturia had honestly believed that she would never know the touch of a man when she had been chosen by Caliburn.

It had been something that she had given up willingly, thoughtlessly. There had been no reason for her to refuse, as she had no plans to marry, no plans to wed.

Merlin, her advisor, had warned her of all the things she would give up. That she would have no normal life, that she would shoulder an entire nation, that she could never live as a human again. She would be a saint; she would be perfect to them.

As a child, she could see no greater bounty.

As an adult, she could see no greater burden.

She would faulter, as they all would. But when she would falter, men would die.

They would always die, because of her imperfections.

She remembered Morgan.

He had come to her, in her dreams, as a man of great beauty and presence, as a man of great sincerity. He eased her burdens, he lifted her suffering, and for the first time in ages, she had been taken back to the fields of her girlhood, she had been given a chance to be eased, she had been given a chance to live as a mere peasant girl, bound not to her bloodline in Uther, but to her own destiny to love and be loved.

She had given in to Morgan, and she had been loved.

The night haunted her for ages, and when she had awoken, she cried to Guinevere for months. She took the herbs Merlin had given her, and she had almost cried with relief when she bled in the next two weeks. She could not imagine a greater fear than to have a child before her court, and she could not imagine a greater relief than knowing she did not carry.

And that feeling—that feeling of terror. When she looked at Mordred, she could relive that night, and it would turn her stomach each time.

Looking at the knight, she could remember the embrace of Morgan, and she could remember when Morgan lifted herself from Arturia, when she had plunged her hand clear through Arturia’s stomach. When she revealed her true face as an enchantress, and told Arturia that because of her, that she had all she needed.

Her hand had seemed to meld into Arturia’s flesh, like she had become nothing but clay. And that was what she had been to the enchantress—clay.

Morgan told her things in quick succession—the fact that she was unfaithful to her wife, the fact that she would give in so easily to flesh, the fact that she had spelled the death of her own kingdom with this act. And Arturia, frozen in her own flesh, could only realize what Morgan meant with each passing word.

She could still not scream, then. She could still only watch.

It was only when Morgan had left that she could cry.

And Mordred—she placed her hand to her own stomach, in thought. She could feel it in Mordred. She could feel that fear.

“My King, I know what you feel, but the child is innocent of the mother’s wrongdoings.” Guinevere had said, when Arturia confided in her wife. “You and I know this. Your father’s sins do not carry to you.”

“Then shall I try to keep the evil out of him?” Arturia asked. “But a child is so easily influenced by the mother. What if he is kept by her, what if he whispers in her ear? What then, shall I kill my own child? I should send him away.”

“You should give him at least part of a chance. If he is lying, if he came to you, then he seeks you. You should not turn a mere boy away.”

Arturia gripped the windowpane. “Guinevere, I cannot raise a child.”

“Then who shall rule when you die?”

“Galahad, he is pure of heart. He has greatness within him. I will make him my heir when he has come back from his quest.”

Guinevere sighed. “You know that is not what I meant, my love. What I mean is that what lays before you are opportunities, not trouble.”

Arturia shook her head. “I am unworthy of that opportunity. Perhaps I shall assign him to another, perhaps I shall allow him my knight. But what I know for truth is that I would only do him ill by making him my heir. No child should carry the burden of that, especially not one who is so young and full of hope.”

Guinevere’s eyes saddened. “Do you regret becoming King, then? Do you regret what you have done here, the people you have met?”

Arturia looked down, and Guinevere fell silent.

“I need to go meet with Merlin, Guinevere.” Arturia finally said, after a long moment of silence, after enough time had passed. The beautiful queen of Camelot’s eyes only saddened more the longer the silence was stretched.

She knew that Arturia did not truly mean it—or at least she believed that she did. She could not be certain anymore, with how much the King had withdrawn from her in these last few years.

She knew the weight Arturia carried. She had been there, for every one of those nights. She had held the King in her arms.

But she could only push so far when Arturia clearly did not want to be touched.

“I understand.”

After Guinevere had left, after the door had been closed, after she knew Guinevere found comfort in the arms of another man that Arturia had loved so dearly but could not bring herself to touch, after she knew that she was pushing away the two people that she loved so dearly—and the possibility of yet another that she could not let into her heart, for how afraid she was that she would see the same look she saw in Guinevere.

It was then that Arturia could choke out a single, lone sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in canon Arturia is turned into a man and Morgan collects her semen, but it makes more sense to me if Morgan just stole the fertilized egg and planted it in herself. (Yes I know fertilization takes days to happen, just roll with me here. It's magic.)
> 
> Also Morgan is. Morgan le Fey. Mordred is half fey.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sure, I may add some more to this. I just had a deep need to get this out of my system since I have loved Arthur and Lancelot LONG before Fate...but the tragic end made me need it even more.


End file.
